


Geek boy vignettes

by ShippenStand



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6747259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippenStand/pseuds/ShippenStand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From an original YA book I may or may not write--a darker gay geek boy version of "Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Magician

"In my day," Bob said, leaning back from the PC and scratching the weird little beer gut perched on his lanky frame. "In my day, all the programmers I knew all could juggle."

"What, like a lot of different programs at the same time?"

"No, like this." Bob stood up and picked up his cell phone, a figurine of R2D2, and the black thing that stapled without staples and set up a pattern in the air, simple and straightforward.

Brad watched him for a few moments. Bob seemed perfectly content to juggle the three things, so Brad reached out and tried to snatch the R2D2 out of the air. He only succeeded in knocking it across the room. Bob caught the cell phone, put it and the un-stapler thing down on the door on sawhorses that served as his desk, and leaned over to get the plastic Star Wars toy. He sat back and held it up in front of his face for a few moments.

"I didn't know you could juggle," Brad finally said to fill the silence, feeling stupid when he heard the remark. Bob didn't do stupid. But, he was dug in, so he might as well make it deeper. It would either be the right tactic, or the wrong one. "When did you learn?"

Bob put the toy down and turned back to the two large, flat-screen monitors that dominated the desk. They rose above an ever-changing tableau of fantasy figurines, toys like the R2D2, and miniature weaponry. He opened up a terminal window, down in the corner of the farthest monitor so Brad couldn't see, but he talked. "Back in the day, it took two to three minutes to compile a program, so debugging was a long and boring process. Every programmer I knew used those two to three minutes learning to juggle. It was a fairly sane response."

"Why didn't you just surf? Read Slashdot, or tech sites?" Brad asked.

Bob tucked his chin, then cocked his head so that he looked at Brad out of the corner of an eye in three-quarter profile. Brad thought he was trying to look like an eagle, but given the state of Bob's graying hair, it came off more like a skeptical chicken. "You do the math," Bob said. "When the Web was born, you were learning to tie your shoes. Maybe. Depends on whether you were a prodigy or not."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dubious consent (off screen) between teen boys.

Dumb ass."

Randy pronounces it in two distinct words. Brad wonders if it should be written as Dumb. Ass. like emphasis on the internet, or if he's being called dumb and an ass, or if Randy's just so mad that he can't quite get the word out. Brad knows he's parsing the two words to avoid thinking about just how bad this is going to be. He falls back on the oldest lame excuse of all lame excuses. "It's just pixels. It's just a game."

It takes Randy a moment to answer. There are colors moving on the screen, but they don't resolve into anything Brad recognizes. All the mess of Randy's room, the shelves of miniatures, old Star Wars action figures, and random electronics--it's just visual white noise. Or maybe pink noise. Brad isn't sure what the color spectra would look like on a Fourier transform. Randy finally grinds out. "Do you have any idea how long I've been playing that character?!"

Brad can see the interbang, the combination of question mark and exclamation point. He says, "I know." He looks at Randy, the lines of his face standing out from the background visual noise like someone used an edge-sharpening algorithm. The tension in Randy's jaw makes his cheekbones even more distinct, and Brad knows this is the wrong time to be thinking about how beautiful Randy is. It's always wrong to think those thoughts, but right now, Randy is about to come up with something for punishment. Randy's punishments are inventive and humiliating, even if he makes sure no one else knows. He owns Brad, and Brad knows it. "I screwed up, but that guy came out of nowhere."

Randy's words are still clipped, coming almost one at a time. "That guy always comes out of nowhere."

"Not my game. Sorry." Brad is more scared than sorry, or maybe it's just pre-ashamed. From the look on Randy's face, it's going to be a bad one.

"Not your character, either." Randy tilts his head and sneers. "Oh. Right. Not mine now, too. Dead."

Brad looks down at the carpet, at the ragged rings of a planet that's the wrong color to be Saturn, at the worn left-overs of Randy's boyhood love of space. "Now what?"

Randy takes his time to answer. "Seven blow jobs."

"What?" Brad is shocked at the suggestion, but he doesn't even look up. He just drops his head into his hands. He knows he'll do it. He's just deathly afraid that Randy knows he wants to. It's worse than when they were twelve and Randy made Brad say _I'm a little faggot_ twenty times, blushing as much from fear of the truth as shame in the saying.

"I spent the last seven months growing that character. You are going to suck my dick seven times. Just be glad I don't make it one for every day."

Brad hears the sound of Randy's zipper, and he wants to cry. And his mouth is watering. And he wonders if he's going to be sick.

"Get over here."


End file.
